Brothers All
by jayel7
Summary: Male bonding among the boys. A vindictive man targets D'Artagnan for revenge and hurts him ... a lot. Set in the time before D'Artaganan becomes a musketeer. Some coarse language and a bit of humor to lighten things up. Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.


Brothers All

"GOOD MOVE, D'ARTAGNAN," Porthos shouted, as he, Athos and Aramis watched their protégé in sword practice with another recruit. The winter afternoon was cool, but clear, perfect for watching practice matches in the garrison courtyard. Most of the garrison's musketeers were gathered around, alternately cheering and jeering the thrusts and parries of the combatants.

Having defeated his first two recruit opponents, D'Artagnan was enjoying himself with a third opponent, moving quickly and gracefully, his long hair falling down across his face. His opponent stumbled backwards and fell, dropping his sword. D'Artagnan gave him a parting salute and came over to where his friends were standing.

Athos delivered one of his infrequent smiles. "That was very good."

D'Artagnan smiled back and gave them a small bow.

"How good would he be against an experienced swordsman, instead of raw recruits," said one of the spectators, a stocky, older musketeer, who stood near them.

D'Artagnan wiped his sweaty forehead on his sleeve and took the drink Porthos handed him before responding. "If you want to go a round with me, I'll take you on."

The older man gave a nod of acknowledgement and strode to the center of the courtyard, followed by D'Artagnan.

After making the traditional salute with their swords, they circled each other warily before moving in for the attack. D'Artagnan's speed and skill were challenged by the older man's strength and aggressiveness. The advantage constantly switched from one to the other, as the match went on for some time. Finally, D'Artagnan saw an opportunity and managed to knock his opponent's sword from his hand. The man fell and D'Artagnan lightly pressed his sword to the man's throat before withdrawing it with a smile.

He held out his hand to assist his fallen opponent to his feet. The musketeer appeared inclined to reject D'Artagnan's assistance, but reluctantly allowed himself to be helped up.

D'Artagnan acknowledged the older man's skill. "You're a worthy opponent."

"Don't patronize me, boy," the man snarled. "I was holding a sword in my hand when you were still in your cradle." He grabbed his sword and stalked off.

D'Artagnan looked at his friends, who were standing close enough to have overheard. He spread his hands, an expression of bewilderment on his face. "What did I say wrong?"

"Nothing," Porthos assured him, giving him a pat on the back.

"Leveque has always been tough on recruits," Aramis said. "He gave Athos and me a hard time when we first came in."

"Leveque is one of the best swordsmen in the company," Athos added. "He takes a great deal of pride in his skill."

"Can't say he has the sunniest of dispositions, though," said Porthos.

A door opened and they looked up to see a grim Captain Treville appear on his balcony. "ATHOS! You and your friends get up here now!"

"Uh oh," said Porthos. "He don't look happy with us. Got a feelin' somebody might get the captain's boot up his ass. Hope it's not me."

Aramis looked at him as they climbed the steps. "I take it you'd rather it was one of the rest of us?"

Porthos grinned. "Of course."

"Whatever happened to one for all?"

Porthos shrugged.

They entered Treville's office and lined up in front of his desk. Treville's eyes were flinty as he faced them. "This doesn't actually involve you, Porthos, but since the four of you are usually together, you can listen to this as well." Porthos looked relieved. "I've had two quite unpleasant visits today involving you, Aramis, and you, D'Artagnan. I'll get to that shortly. First, I have something to say to you, Athos."

Athos remained stoic.

"I'm well aware of your drinking habits, but you've never let it interfere with your duties. You are the one I count on to be my most responsible soldier, to exercise sound judgment and to set an example. You are supposed to be a leader. Instead, you have ignored your responsibilities. I fully depend upon you to know what these other three are doing and to keep them out of trouble. In this, you have failed me and I am greatly disappointed in you. A leader is never negligent of his responsibilities, as you have been."

Athos looked down, but said nothing.

Treville turned his attention to Aramis. "I was visited this morning by a highly irate Baron de Chaumont."

Aramis's guilty expression indicated that he knew where this was going.

"The baron discovered that you have been dallying with his wife while he's been away from Paris on business."

Athos spoke up. "In all due respect, Captain, the baroness's indiscretions are well-known. Aramis is hardly the only man in Paris to have enjoyed her favors."

"Be that as it may, the baron was less concerned with his wife's non-existent virtue than the fact that she had been bedded by, in his words, 'A lowly musketeer.' It was only after I was able to convince him that Aramis came from a family as honorable as his own, that he calmed down."

Treville shook his head. "Aramis, you're a damned fine soldier – dedicated, courageous and loyal – but when it comes to being tempted by women you would be wise to avoid, you unfasten your breeches and throw all caution to the winds." Treville pointed his finger at Aramis. "This kind of irresponsible behavior must stop. You're to have no further contact with the Baroness de Chaumont. Do I make myself clear?"

Aramis response was dutiful. "Perfectly, Captain."

Treville's gaze settled on D'Artagnan. "Now I come to you, young D'Artagnan. Two nights ago, when the king and queen were entertaining important guests, you accompanied your friends to the palace. While there, you had a run-in with a certain high-ranking nobleman, the Comte de Vienne. To say that the comte is extremely offended and furious with you is an understatement. He demanded that I have you flogged."

D'Artagnan's eyes widened in apprehension.

"I refused, of course. My refusal infuriated the comte even more. I did assure him that I would deal with you as I saw fit, which he made clear he found completely unacceptable. I've heard the comte's version of the incident. Now I want to hear yours."

D'Artagnan began hesitantly. "I didn't know who he was, Sir, only that he was a member of the nobility. Two of the queen's ladies asked if I would bring them some wine. As I was returning with the wine, I saw him coming towards me. He was deep in conversation with a man I took to be in his employ. He wasn't watching where he was going and bumped into me. The wine spilled all over his clothes."

D'Artagnan glanced at the others as if seeking moral support then continued. "He said, 'Damn you for a clumsy lout.' I told him that he was the one who bumped into me and that he should watch where he was going. He said, 'You damned low-born cur. You need to learn how to speak to your betters.' I told him that he wasn't any better than me and that he was a self-important bastard. Then I said … I told him that he could go screw himself and-"

Porthos gave a snort, which was quelled instantly by a look from Treville.

"That's enough!" Treville wearily rubbed his eyes and looked accusingly at Athos. "Athos, you know very well that coming from Gascony, D'Artagnan is not accustomed to dealing with high-ranking nobles at court. It was your duty to instruct him on how to conduct himself appropriately among the king's inner circle. Whether such nobles act like bastards or not, is immaterial. You have certainly been derelict in not getting across to him what is, and is not, considered suitable behavior for a musketeer."

D'Artagnan broke in. "That's not fair, Captain. Don't blame Athos. He did tell me how I was supposed to act. This is my fault. I knew better, but I lost my temper."

"Yes, you did, and with a man who's one of France's wealthiest and most powerful nobles. His family has maintained close ties with the monarchy for generations." Treville pointed his finger at D'Artagnan. "He has threatened to go to the king and he still might."

D'Artagnan couldn't meet the captain's stern countenance and looked down. "I'm sorry, Sir."

"What's done is done, but both you and Aramis must pay a penalty for your irresponsible behavior. Tomorrow, we will begin construction of a new stone wall at the south end of the garrison. It will be hard, dirty work and you and Aramis will be performing your share of it. I'll expect you both to be there at first light. Is that understood?"

D'Artagnan and Aramis answered in unison. "Yes, sir, Captain."

Treville's tone was curt. "You are all dismissed."

Chastened, they trooped back down the stairs. Athos said, "I haven't heard a lecture like that since I was ten years old and had to face the headmaster about a prank I pulled on one of my teachers."

"What was that about," Aramis asked, setting his hat more firmly upon his head.

"I had a teacher who was disliked by all of the boys in my class. He was quite strict and would report us to the headmaster for minor infractions. He had this strange aversion to frogs. He couldn't stand the sight of them. Behind the school was a stream with a multitude of frogs. Some other boys and I took sacks and caught about four dozen of the creatures, and I turned them loose in the teacher's room one evening while he was out. When he returned, the frogs were everywhere – on the bed, the curtains, the walls, his clothes hanging on hooks. He reacted as hysterically as a highborn lady seeing a mouse. No one confessed to knowing anything about the prank, so the headmaster was set to punish all the boys in the class." He shrugged. "What could I do but take the blame for it. In return, I received a stern lecture on the proper behavior expected of the future Comte de la Ferre and a caning which I can still remember."

"Comte," said Porthos, "There are things about you that still surprise me."

**That Evening**

"D'Artagnan, we're leaving." Athos touched the boy's sleeve.

D'Artagnan briefly turned his attention away from the tavern maid with whom he was flirting at the bar. It wasn't like being with Constance, but the girl was pretty and obviously taken with him. "Go ahead. I'll only be a few minutes behind you."

"See that you are. Remember, you and Aramis have to be up early tomorrow. Treville won't be pleased if you're late getting to work on the wall."

"I know. I know. I'll be there at the crack of dawn, I promise." He turned his attention back to the girl.

A few minutes turned into closer to thirty by the time he left the tavern on Rue Joubert. The tavern wasn't one of their usual haunts and was a considerable distance from the garrison. A chilly wind blew down the poorly lit, deserted street, and D'Artagnan regretted that he hadn't brought his cloak. Still musing on the girl in the tavern, he was more than a block away when he became aware of four men following at a distance.

He speeded up his steps and looked back. The men quickened their pace and began to run, closing the distance with D'Artagnan. He also began to run, headed in the direction of the garrison. Other men came at him from side streets, forcing him to change direction time and again. He ran faster, racing through streets and alleys unfamiliar to him until he was lost.

He fled down a rubbish strewn alley and tripped, landing on his knees and losing crucial moments to his pursuers. He scrambled to his feet, panting, and ran out of the alley back into another street. He kept running in and out of alleys, until he chose the wrong one. The alley was a dead end.

D'Artagnan drew his sword and turned to face the men crowding into the entrance to the alley. "It takes a dozen of you to catch me," he gasped. "I'm flattered."

One of the men advanced on him. "You led us a merry chase, but now it's all over. Give it up." They closed in.

"Not without a fight." His sword stabbed into more than one of them, but the others kept coming. There could be only one outcome and he knew it, but he fought fiercely until several of them grabbed his arm and wrestled the sword from his grasp. Even then, he kept fighting, kneeing a man in the groin and hearing a satisfying grunt of pain. His satisfaction proved to be short-lived when another man grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back. A meaty fist punched him in the stomach, knocking the breath out of him. Before he could recover his breath, something hit him in the back of the head. Stars exploded before everything turned black.

It was the loud creaking of an iron gate being opened that brought D'Artagnan back to consciousness. He opened his eyes and discovered that he was lying in the back of an open wagon, his hands and feet bound. The wagon rattled through the gate and stopped in the torch lit courtyard of a building resembling a fortress. Two men seized him and dragged him from the wagon, then slashed the ropes which bound his hands and feet.

Trying to ignore the ache in his head, he took a swift glance around. "Where is this," he demanded. "Why have you brought me here?"

One of the men gave him an unpleasant smile. "You'll find out soon enough."

Other men joined them and a nearby door was opened. D'Artagnan was pushed through the door and down a flight of steps. He briefly considered fighting his captors, but he had no weapon left and he was outnumbered by his armed captors. He felt a deep pang of loss, knowing that he might never again see the sword that his beloved father had made for him. He had few possessions, other than the clothes on his back, and he treasured the sword beyond measure. At the foot of the stairs were a corridor and a cell. The cell door was opened and he was pushed inside.

"Enjoy your stay," one of the men mocked him, locking the cell door.

The men left and D'Artagnan surveyed his surroundings. A torch mounted on the corridor wall provided barely enough light to reveal the cell's interior. The floor was filthy, marred with bits of dried up food and other stains that he preferred not to try to identify. The cell was furnished with a scant layer of dirty straw for a bed and a bucket for personal needs. High up on the cell wall was a small, barred window, which he presumed opened upon the courtyard. He paced the cell for a minute and then sat down cross legged on the straw. His captors could have easily killed him when they ran him to ground in the alley, yet they hadn't. He was being saved for something, but what?

It was the next morning before his guards reappeared and placed a bucket of water in his cell. "Here's your drinking water," one of them said.

"Do I get anything to eat?"

The guards were unmoved by the plaintive note in his voice. They looked at each other as though amused by the question. "In a place this fancy, I s'pose you're expectin' roast pheasant and fresh fruit in season," one of them said. "Too bad we're all out and we got no orders to provide you with anything else." They laughed.

D'Artagnan turned away from them. He wouldn't ask again. Not that it would do any good anyway.

He found it hard to keep track of the days and nights that passed, their sameness broken only by occasional footsteps and muffled voices heard overhead. From the courtyard, he could sometimes hear the rumble of wagons and the whinnying of horses. The cell felt increasingly cold and damp. The healthy appetite of youth made hunger pangs a constant torment. He tried to fill the emptiness of his stomach with more of the water that was kept replenished. At night, he slept fitfully, haunted by thoughts of food and worry over what was going to happen to him. Did they intend to leave him to starve to death? How long did it take to starve? He didn't know.

In a daze induced by hunger and weakness, he didn't hear the guards enter his cell. A boot kicked him in the ribs. Before he could react, a harsh voice sounded in his ear. "Get up, boy!" He was heaved to his feet, forced up the stairs, jerked when he stumbled, and then thrust outside. He stood blinking in the light that seemed dazzling after the gloom of his cell. He looked up and could see that the sky was heavily overcast.

The guards pulled off his jacket, leaving him in the thin shirt he wore underneath. He shivered in the chilly air and noticed a whipping post standing in the middle of the courtyard. They began pulling him over to the post, and he started instinctively to struggle until a hard backhand to the face staggered him. They turned him to face the post and fastened his hands to a metal ring above his head. Having done this, they stood back as if waiting for something or someone. D'Artagnan noticed a crowd of people gathered around the edge of the courtyard. Most were tough looking men, but a small number appeared to be domestic servants. He was going to be whipped in front of them all. He could scarcely decide which was going to be worse – the whipping itself or the humiliation of enduring it before witnesses.

Footsteps sounded behind him, and D'Artagnan turned his head. Approaching him was the Comte de Vienne. "You truly look like the guttersnipe you are. How fitting for your day of retribution," he gloated, taking obvious pleasure in the boy's disheveled appearance.

D'Artagnan gave him a bitter look, but made no response.

After his time in the filthy cell, D'Artagnan realized how dirty and bedraggled he was. By contrast, the comte was elegantly dressed, his clothing made of rich velvets and his hands adorned with jeweled rings. The jet black hair threaded with silver, unfeeling eyes and sensual mouth were just as D'Artagnan remembered.

"You've gone to considerable trouble to get even with me for insulting you," D'Artagnan said.

"It was well worth it." The comte smiled. "I intend to instill in you some manners and proper respect for the nobility. You're an ill-bred churl and I will teach you your place." He paused. "As you are doubtless aware, I went to see that captain of yours, Treville. I shall have to recommend to the king that he be removed. He's unworthy of his position. He's much too soft on the riffraff he commands."

D'Artagnan's temper flared. "He's worth a thousand of you."

The comte's tone was condescending. "Actually, he isn't." He stroked his perfectly trimmed beard. "Unlike me, the captain cannot claim to be descended from one of the finest families in all of France."

"He has balls, which is more than you can claim," D'Artagnan jeered. He felt a moment's satisfaction seeing the comte's eyes flash with fury.

The man closest to D'Artagnan stepped forward and slapped him across the face so hard that his ears rang.

"Impudent puppy! I will crush your insolence. I swear I will drag your pride in the dust." The comte gave a signal to the largest of his men. The man left and returned in a couple of minutes carrying a cat-o'-nine-tails.

Despite himself, D'Artagnan couldn't hide the fear and dread in his eyes.

"Not that one, you fool," the comte snapped. "I want him severely punished, not killed. Get a whip suitable for unruly horses, or," he looked directly at D'Artagnan, "Unmannerly boys who need to be taught a lesson." He stepped closer to D'Artagnan. "By the time I'm done with you, you will be broken. You'll be on your knees begging me for mercy."

D'Artagnan gritted his teeth. "I'll never beg YOU for anything!"

The comte smiled. "Oh, but you will. You will say the words, 'I beg you for mercy.'"

D'Artagnan remained defiant. "No! I won't!"

The large man returned with a whip which met with the comte's approval. The comte took a step backwards. "Beat him from his shoulders to the backs of his knees. Don't stop until I tell you to quit."

At first, he stood the lashes fairly well, but the blows were relentless. They crisscrossed time and time again so that he had no chance to catch his breath. His skin burned with an unbearable, fiery pain. D'Artagnan bit his lip until it bled, determined not to give the comte the satisfaction of hearing him give voice to the pain. His eyes filled with tears and he hid his face against the post, unwilling that onlookers witness the shame of seeing him cry. He wanted to scream, to groan, but pride kept him from anything more than quiet grunts of pain. The beating went on and on, lashes falling atop other lashes. Finally, when he thought he could bear no more, the beating stopped.

His hands were unfastened from the metal ring and he collapsed at the bottom of the post. As his hands were being retied behind him, the comte leaned down. "You're more stubborn that I anticipated, but I'm not through with you. There WILL be more to come. My dungeon holds … the most unpleasant of devices."

D'Artagnan wanted to make some reply, but he had little breath left. His back, butt and thighs felt on fire and throbbed with pain. Despite the pain, he gradually slipped into a kind of stupor. It was the rain that brought him out of it, a cold rain that added to his misery. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed, accompanied by a hard rain that left him soaked and shivering. Soon, he was sitting in a puddle of water and unable to move far enough to get out of it. It grew colder as the wind picked up. He had never felt more miserable and alone.

He tried to distract his mind from his condition by thinking back on Athos, Porthos and Aramis. With them, he'd had the most exciting times of his life, even when things got scary like with Vadim. They were the brothers he'd never had and better than any brothers he could have imagined. They took the time to teach and advise him and included him in the good times they'd had together. He didn't much mind even when they teased him, ordered him around or reprimanded him. That was the way of big brothers, wasn't it? But why couldn't they have found him by now? Where were they? Why didn't they come for him?

The downpour continued throughout the day and into the night. There was no one about now, all of them staying inside out of the rain and cold. He had an urgent need to relieve himself, but none of the comte's men were around to untie him and allow him to go. Unable to stand the pressure any longer, he peed his breeches. Another humiliation. His clothes were already drenched, and he was thankful that at least no one would discern what happened and mock him, had there been anyone present to notice.

Just before midnight, the rain let up and a damp cold set in. D'Artagnan's feet felt like blocks of ice and his fingers were numb with cold. He despaired that his friends would find him anytime soon. He could almost see their faces, hear their voices, and even smell the leather of their uniforms, but their presence was only in his mind. Still wishing for them, he slowly slipped into unconsciousness.

**Twelve Days Prior**

A shirtless Aramis was hard at work on the garrison's new stone wall. He paused to wipe a mixture of dirt and sweat off his face and saw Treville approaching. The musketeer commander glanced around, his expression showing displeasure. "I don't see D'Artagnan anywhere."

Aramis was deliberately evasive. "He has to be around here somewhere, Captain."

"He had better be. Get on with your work." To Aramis's relief, the commander left.

As he worked, Aramis kept an eye out for Athos or Porthos. Spotting Porthos, he called him over.

Porthos looked at the progress of the wall. "I'm impressed. Maybe the captain will let you build a wall around the entire garrison."

Aramis ignored the remark. "Have you seen D'Artagnan this morning?"

"You mean he's not here with you?" Porthos stroked his chin. "Treville's gonna have his hide."

"He didn't show up this morning. I covered for him with the captain, but that's not going to last. Check with Athos. If he hasn't seen D'Artagnan either, you need to find him and get him here fast."

"He seemed pretty interested in the girl in the tavern last night. You think he could've spent the night with her and he's still there?"

"That would be stupid."

Porthos chuckled. "True, but which one of us hasn't been stupid when it comes to women?"

"Just get him back here, Porthos."

In a little while, Porthos returned. Aramis, still at work on the wall, could tell by his expression that Porthos had come up empty.

Porthos said, "I talked to Brigitte. That's the tavern maid. I asked her, delicate like, about D'Artagnan.

"Delicate like?"

"Right. I asked if her and D'Artagnan had a roll in the hay last night."

"That was certainly delicate."

Porthos looked pleased with himself. "I thought so. Anyway, she said, 'No.'"

"And you believed her?"

Porthos nodded. "She acted disappointed that it didn't happen. After I left there, I went to Madame Bonacieux's house. She said she hadn't seen D'Artagnan."

Aramis's face showed his concern. "Get Athos. We need to tell Treville that D'Artagnan is missing."

In his office, Treville listened gravely to the musketeers' account of D'Artagnan's disappearance.

"Becoming a musketeer means everything to D'Artagnan," said Athos. "No matter how rash he is at times, he would never jeopardize his chances of joining us. Something beyond his control must have happened to him."

"I agree," said Treville. "Aramis, you could have told me about this sooner, but that can't be helped now. I'm pulling you off work detail on the wall. All of you need to investigate the neighborhood around Rue Joubert and see what you can find out. If you come up with nothing, I'll send every other man available to aid in the search."

Days stretched into a week and then beyond as the search went on, but none of the searchers could find anyone who had seen or heard anything helpful. Discouraged, Athos returned to Treville's office to report their latest failure. "Porthos has talked to everyone he knows in the Court of Miracles, and we've checked every tavern and brothel in Paris. We've viewed the bodies found in the Seine and visited the morgue. There's nothing, just nothing."

"Damn it! Someone has to know something."

After a moment's thought, Athos said, "I'm going back to Rue Joubert and talk to the tavern maid."

"Didn't Porthos already do that?"

"He did, but I want to talk with her myself." Athos straightened his hat and prepared to leave. "It may not yield anything helpful, but what else do we have?"

At the tavern, Athos approached the man behind the bar. "I'd like to speak with Mademoiselle Brigitte."

The man stepped to an open door of a room behind the bar. "Brigitte! There's a musketeer out here to see you."

In a moment, the girl appeared and Athos touched the brim of his hat. "I'm Athos of the King's Musketeers."

She fluttered her eyelashes at him appreciatively. "I remember seeing you before. You and some other musketeers were here with D'Artagnan."

"I need to know if there's anything you can tell me about the night he was in here."

"I already told what I knew to the musketeer who was here before you. Me and D'Artagnan talked for awhile after the rest of you left. He said he had to get back to the garrison. I tried to get him to stay longer, but he said he couldn't."

"This is important. Did you see anyone leave when he did?"

She shook her head. "No. No one left at the same time he did." She paused. "There's one other thing, but I don't know if it's important enough to mention. I didn't tell the other musketeer about it."

"Whatever it is, tell me."

"When he left, there was some men standing across the street. I got busy for a minute, and when I looked again, they was gone."

"Would you happen to know who these men were?"

"No, but they come in now and again. I've overheard them talking before, and I think they work for the Comte de Vienne."

Once back in Treville's office, Athos related what he'd been told.

Treville was thoughtful. "The Comte de Vienne. We need to talk with him. For years, there have been rumors of an unsavory nature regarding the comte. He married a wealthy widow, who left Paris shortly after their marriage and hasn't been seen since. I've heard he was barred from several Parisian bordellos for getting too rough with the whores. He has a house, I believe, in the district of Saint Denis. I'll send Aramis and Porthos to see if they can locate him."

Aramis and Porthos stood in the middle of a street in Saint Denis. "Where do you want to go first," Porthos asked.

"Let's try the bakery there," Aramis suggested. "Everyone buys bread, so the owner probably knows the people in the neighborhood." Once inside, Aramis doffed his hat and smiled at the plump woman behind the counter. "The bread smells wonderful, Madame. You must be the finest baker in all of Paris."

The woman didn't bother to return his smile. "Save your compliments. I don't bake the bread. I just sell it."

Aramis was slightly taken aback. "I see. Actually, we stopped in to find out if you could help us locate someone."

"You don't want to buy any bread?"

"Uh, no."

"Then get out. I have work to do and you're wasting my time."

Porthos reached into a pouch, pulled out a few coins and laid them on the counter. "We're looking for the residence of the Comte de Vienne."

The woman snatched up the coins and pocketed them. "I can tell you that right enough. It's down the street just before you reach the corner – a white, three storied house with stone lions by the front door."

Porthos nodded his thanks and followed Aramis out the door. "Let's hope we're on the right track."

As they approached the front door of the comte's house, Aramis put a restraining hand on Porthos's arm. "If a woman servant comes to the door, let me handle it. You stay back. She'll respond better to my looks and charm."

"Like that last try? It didn't go so well."

Aramis was dismissive. "That was merely an aberration."

"Hm. What if a man servant opens the door?"

"Then you can handle it. He might be jealous of me and less likely to tell us anything."

Porthos gave him a long look.

Aramis used the door knocker to announce their presence. At length, the door was opened by a woman servant with a sour expression. Aramis swept off his hat and gave her the benefit of a deep bow and his most winning smile. "Bon Jour, Madame," he greeted her.

She eyed him with suspicion. "What do you want? If you're selling something, go around to the back door. If you're a bill collector, I'll set the dogs on you."

Aramis glanced back at Porthos, who maintained a straight face. "I'm Aramis of the King's Musketeers."

She was unimpressed. "So?"

Aramis decided to embellish the truth. "We're on an important mission for the king and his majesty would be most grateful for your help."

"Grateful enough, I suppose, to send me an invitation to the palace the next time he throws a party?"

"Uh, not exactly, no, but it is most important that we speak with the Comte de Vienne."

"You're out of luck then. The comte is not here."

She began to close the door, but Aramis's foot held it open. He decided to be straightforward. "A boy is missing and we've been looking everywhere for him. We must locate the comte and we're not leaving until you tell us where we can find him."

Her attitude softened only slightly. "The comte don't spend much time here. He prefers to stay at one of his other estates. The one he stays at mostly is in a little village called Saint Collette about forty kilometers north of here." Clearly wanting to be rid of him, she shut the door in his face.

Porthos came up to him and Aramis looked at him in puzzlement. "What's wrong with the women of Saint Denis? They're so hostile. For some reason, they must not like men."

Porthos shrugged. "Maybe it's just you they don't like."

Aramis considered this, but only for a moment. "Can't be … Let's get back and let Treville and Athos know what we found out. Locating the comte may be our best chance of finding D'Artagnan."

When they related their findings to Treville, the captain's decision was immediate. "You three need to be on your way to Saint Collette. If you leave right away, you should be there before nightfall."

An hour outside of Saint Collette, the musketeers ran into a heavy, cold downpour. After arriving in the village and instructing the stable boy to take care of their horses, they walked across the street to the village's only tavern. They hung up their wet hats and cloaks to dry by the tavern's fireplace and took seats at a table. The tavern owner came over and Athos gave their order. "We'd like a bottle of good wine, a loaf of fresh bread and some of your best cheese."

The owner's tone was matter-of-fact. "We only have cheap wine, the bread's not very fresh and there's just one kind of cheese. Take it or leave it."

Porthos spoke up quickly. "We'll take it. I'm hungry enough to eat anything."

The man went to get their order and Aramis stretched out his legs. "The food may not be the best, but you can hardly fault the gracious atmosphere."

"What can you tell us about an estate here owned by the Comte de Vienne," Athos asked, when the man brought their food and wine.

"The comte's chateau is just past the end of the village. You go over a bridge and turn right for about one kilometer." The tavern door opened and an old man entered, followed by a gust of wind and blowing rain.

"This weather's not fit for man or beast," the old man grumbled to no one in particular.

The tavern owner nodded towards the old man, who was hanging up his shabby, wet coat. "Old Emile there has worked at the chateau for years. He can tell you anything else you want to know." He called the old man over. "Emile! I think these musketeers would like to talk to you."

The old man shuffled over and Porthos pulled out a chair for him. "Musketeers, eh!" He eyed them with admiration. "We hardly ever see musketeers through our village."

Athos introduced himself and his companions. "We're seeking information on the Comte de Vienne and were told that you work for him."

Emile nodded and looked pointedly at the food on the table. Porthos pushed it over his way and the old man helped himself. "That's right. I work in the comte's stables."

Eagerly, Porthos leaned forward. "Is the comte at the chateau now?"

He nodded. "Got back just after dawn this mornin'. God rot his soul!" He spat on the floor, earning a disapproving look from the tavern owner.

"Did he have anyone with him," Aramis asked.

"Some of his men what travels with him."

"No one else," Athos asked.

Emile shook his head.

Athos couldn't conceal his disappointment. "We were hoping you could tell us about someone who may be with the comte … someone being kept against his will."

"Oh, as to that, there's been somebody been held in his dungeon for, let me see, must be about two weeks. Them that works in the kitchen said they had orders they wasn't to send any food to the prisoner. He must be half starved by now."

Porthos broke in. "Is his name D'Artagnan?"

"Never heard his name mentioned. I don't ask too many questions. Better that way."

"Have you seen the prisoner? Can you describe him," Athos asked.

Emile munched on a piece of cheese before answering. "Never got a good look at him until today. Young. Dark hair. On the skinny side. Got a face 'most as pretty as a girl."

Porthos laughed. "He wouldn't like that description, but it fits."

"Where is he now," Athos demanded.

"Tied to a post in the courtyard. Been there since early this mornin' when the comte had him brought up from the dungeon to be whipped."

Athos voice was low and angry. "Whipped!"

Emile's lined face showed his distaste. "The comte had everybody at the chateau brought out to watch. They beat him unmerciful, they did. He never made hardly a sound, though. The lad's got grit."

Athos almost smiled. "That he does."

Aramis's dark eyes were anxious. "How did he seem to you after the beating?"

"They wouldn't let nobody get up near him, but he was passed out or close to it, I'd say. He looked worse by the time I left to come here, bein' kept out all day in the rain and cold. A stray dog deserves better than bein' left out in this kind of weather."

"What're waitin' for?" Porthos scraped back his chair and stood up. "We need to go get him now."

Athos was grim. "We can't get him now, Porthos. We don't have enough men with us. If we're going to get him out of there by ourselves, we first need a plan."

"I can help you get him out," Emile volunteered.

Porthos was doubtful. "Why would you help us? What would happen to you if anyone found out?"

"Nobody would suspect me of helpin' you. I'm old and they think I'm mostly useless. There's things been goin' on there before that I didn't like, but I couldn't stop it. My guess is that the comte's not through with the boy. He's got the rack and some other torture things down in his dungeon."

"We can't risk leaving D'Artagnan there much longer," Aramis said. "We accept your offer of help. Tell us how you think we can get him out."

Athos paced up and down in the livery stable, while Porthos and Aramis sat on bales of hay, watching him. They had remained in the tavern until it closed, then returned to the livery and saddled their horses in readiness. Impatiently, they waited for the time old Emile had told them to meet him at the comte's chateau. Athos stopped pacing, opened the livery door and looked out. "The rain has stopped," he announced, "But the air is freezing." He pulled his cloak tighter about him. "I can only imagine how D'Artagnan is faring."

"You wearin' a hole in the floor ain't likely to make him feel any warmer," Porthos pointed out.

Athos merely looked at him, but came back and sat down beside the others and put his head in his hands. "Treville was right. That night at the palace, I should have been aware of what was going on. If I had made D'Artagnan apologize to the comte, we wouldn't be here now."

Aramis put a hand on Athos's back. "Even the Comte de la Ferre can't know everything,"

After an hour or so, Aramis opened the livery door and looked up at the position of the moon. He turned back to Athos and Porthos. "I think it's about time for us to go."

As had been arranged, the musketeers met Emile at the back of a neglected walled garden behind the chateau. They had brought no extra horse for D'Artagnan after the old man had expressed the strongest doubts that D'Artagnan would be able to ride by himself. They followed Emile through an unlocked gate to the garden and into an unused passage in a derelict part of the chateau.

Cautiously, Emile cracked open the door at the end of the passage. A man was walking across the courtyard and Emile pulled the door shut. "Somebody walkin' around outside," he hissed. They waited for several minutes with the old man watching through a crack in the door until the man went back into the building. "I don't see nobody else out. It looks safe," he said and they warily emerged.

Most of the courtyard was shrouded in darkness with only a single torch burning at the far end. "D'Artagnan sat unmoving, his legs folded underneath him, and his head bowed.

Aramis reached him first and quickly cut the rope binding him to the post. With nothing to support himself, he would have fallen over had the kneeling Porthos not grabbed him. Feeling hands upon him and expecting them to be the rough hands of his captors, D'Artagnan began to struggle wildly. Porthos strengthened his grip, but the frantic boy continued to fight him.

"D'Artagnan! Stop it! Stop! Don't fight me," Porthos ordered in a low, stern voice. "We've come to get you out of here."

Hearing a familiar voice, D'Artagnan ceased struggling and slowly opened his eyes. His whisper was a mixture of hope and disbelief. "Porthos?" His gaze found the other two musketeers and an old man he did not know.

Aramis knelt, put his hand underneath D'Artagnan's chin and tipped his face up. His voice was soft. "What have they done to you?"

_Why did it take you so long to find me?_

D'Artagnan tried to put the thought into words, but struggling with Porthos had taken all the energy he had left. Instead, his eyes closed and he sagged against Porthos's chest. The musketeers could see that the back of D'Artagnan's shirt was in tatters and that there were rips in his breeches, but the courtyard was too dark for a look at his injuries.

"He's out," Aramis said. He removed his glove and placed his hand against D'Artagnan's face. The skin was cold and clammy. "As cold as he is, he should be shivering, but he isn't. That's not a good sign."

"We need to move," Athos said. "Porthos, you carry D'Artagnan and be careful with him."

"I'll be as gentle as his mum," Porthos promised. He raised the boy to his feet and hoisted him over his shoulder. They went back the way they had come, this time without encountering anyone and once again emerged outside of the walled garden.

"He can ride with me," Aramis said. "My horse can handle two riders." He mounted and Porthos placed D'Artagnan in front of him. Aramis took off his cloak and put it around D'Artagnan. Porthos and Athos handed over their cloaks, as well, to provide more warmth for him.

Emile brought something out from behind a bush. "These belong to the boy," he said. "I thought he'd be wantin' them back." He handed D'Artagnan's jacket and his sword to Athos.

"He'll be grateful for their return, especially for the sword," Athos said.

"They'll be out lookin' for you as soon as they find the lad is gone," Emile warned.

"We're taking a back road that's seldom traveled," Athos replied. He reached down from his horse to shake Emile's hand. "We are forever in your debt." They turned their horses around and prepared to leave.

"Godspeed," the old man said, watching them ride away.

Shortly before dawn. Athos bounded up the steps of the garrison's small infirmary and flung open the door of the building. The doctor, a fortyish man wearing glasses, and one of his assistants, a younger man, were standing in the infirmary's hallway. Athos's tone was urgent. "Dr. Pascal, we have D'Artagnan and he's in need of your services!"

"Bring him in, Athos," the doctor ordered, "But not to the ward. It's too crowded." He turned to his assistant. "Durand, we'll put him in the first room."

Porthos retrieved the unconscious boy from Aramis's horse and effortlessly scooped him up in his arms. He was directed to the room and carefully laid D'Artagnan down on a cot.

The doctor reached for D'Artagnan's wrist to check his pulse, then felt of his cold hands and frowned. "What has happened to D'Artagnan?"

Briefly, Aramis explained the boy's abuse by the Comte de Vienne. "Getting him back here wasn't easy," he added. "The road was muddy and full of ruts and potholes. He would flinch when the going got especially rough, but he never regained consciousness and we couldn't get him warmed up enough. We haven't even had a chance to get a good look at his injuries, traveling in the dark the way we were."

"He's obviously suffering from exposure," the doctor said. "Durand will get more blankets for him. I'll have to examine him to determine the extent of his other injuries." He turned to the three men, who stood watching. "You'll need to see to your horses and report back to Treville. There's nothing more you can do for him right now. We'll take good care of him and you can come back later. In the meantime, leave D'Artagnan to us."

After taking care of what needed to be done, they returned to find Dr. Pascal beside D'Artagnan's cot. Athos asked the question for all of them. "How is he?"

The doctor put aside the chart upon which he had been writing. "I can hear a rattle in his chest, which means congestion, and he's exhausted. The other thing is that he's been brutally beaten. D'Artagnan lay on his stomach, his face turned towards them, with one hand underneath his cheek. He was so deeply asleep that he gave no indication of being aware of their presence. The doctor pushed aside the blankets. "You aren't going to like this," he warned the three men. "As you'll be able to see for yourselves, they weren't content to apply the lash only to his back." He pulled D'Artagnan's nightshirt all the way up, exposing angry looking purple and red welts that covered nearly every inch of his skin down to his knees.

Porthos reacted first. "Bloody hell! The bastards!"

Athos jaw tightened visibly and his hands clenched into fists. He turned his head away, making an effort at self-control.

Aramis's dark eyes filled with sympathy. "He would't have been able to stand the ride back here had he not been unconscious." He pulled the nightshirt back down and covered him again with the blankets. D'Artagnan shifted and moved his hand away from his face. Aramis picked up the hand and looked at it. Someone, likely Duran, had trimmed and cleaned his fingernails. It was a small, but reassuring, sign that D'Artagnan was being well looked after.

"There's no doubt that the wounds are quite painful," said Dr. Pascal. "The only positive thing I can say is that as numerous as they are, the cuts aren't terribly deep. There's a good possibility that he will heal without permanent scars. Infection is almost certain to set in, though. I'm also concerned about the hours he spent in the rain and cold. That alone is enough to make him quite ill."

Porthos asked, "How much longer before he wakes up?"

The doctor looked down at his patient. "He should sleep for hours as weak and worn out as he is. There's no point in any of you staying around at present to hold his hand, so to speak."

"We'll be back," Aramis promised. "One of us is going to be here with him as much as possible."

The doctor nodded. "That's good. He'll probably need you, but for now you can go about your regular duties. We'll see to him in the meantime."

Porthos returned to D'Artagnan's room as night was falling. Duran was there and nodded a greeting. "I had Serge to bring over some broth for him earlier. I managed to get part of it down him, but it came back up and I had to change his nightshirt."

"You'll have to go slow on feedin' him," Porthos replied. "They starved him when they had him."

Duran picked up a cup from the bedside table. "I tried to get him to drink this herbal tea. All our patients detest the taste, but it does usually help with infections and fevers. He gagged and wouldn't swallow it."

"Hm," Porthos said. "D'you mind if I try?"

"Go ahead. You may have better luck than I had."

Porthos carefully raised D'Artagnan up and sat down on the cot to brace him. Durand handed him the tea. "Come on, D'Artagnan. Wake up," Porthos urged him. "Open your mouth. You need to drink this." D'Artagnan roused slightly and his eyes opened. Porthos held the cup to his lips. "Drink it." D'Artagnan swallowed a bit of it and started to gag. "None of that now. Do you hear me," Porthos said. "I know it tastes bad, but drink it. Drink it for Porthos."

D'Artagnan grimaced at the taste, but Porthos coaxed him along and little by little, he swallowed the contents of the cup. Porthos set aside the cup and eased the boy back down. He looked at Durand. "This could be a long night."

Around midnight, Athos came in to stay with D'Artagnan. "He's been restless," Porthos told him. "He's started runnin' a fever and talkin' stuff that don't make much sense. One of the doctor's assistants is comin' back later with more of the herbal tea he needs to drink. He hates it, but it's supposed to be good for him, so try to get him to drink it."

"If it will help him, I'll see that he drinks it no matter how much he hates it," Athos vowed. He sat down in a straight chair beside D'Artagnan's bed.

In a little while, D'Artagnan began to shiver. "C-cold," he mumbled, his teeth chattering. Athos touched his forehead. Despite the shivering, his skin was alarmingly hot. Athos looked around and saw extra blankets stacked on a shelf. He got up and added the blankets to D'Artagnan's bed, but the extra covering had no effect. There was no let up in his shivering and shaking.

A weary Dr. Pascal came in, looked closely at D'Artagnan and placed his hand on his patient's forehead. "Severe chills and high fever. That's what I expected considering what he's been through."

The doctor's assistant came to the door, urgency in his voice. "Doctor, you're needed."

Dr. Pascal noted the extra blankets Athos had placed on the bed. "The blankets will help, but body heat is more effective. You need to hold him to help him get over the chill."

Consternation registered on the face of the reserved Athos. "You want me to hold-"There was no response. The doctor was already out the door.

Flustered, Athos paced several steps. He wasn't like Aramis or Porthos, who were perfectly comfortable with frequent slaps on the back, hands on the shoulder or friendly cuffs. He certainly wasn't like D'Artagnan, whose brown eyes sometimes seemed to plead for reassuring hugs. Athos preferred to retain a degree of aloofness.

D'Artagnan's violent shaking was impossible to ignore and Athos knew that he had to do something. This was D'Artagnan, after all, the one they had all come to care for as a younger brother. Athos stepped over to the cot, raised the boy up and settled in behind him, his back resting against the wall. He pulled the blankets up more securely and held him close.

D'Artagnan continued to shiver and to Athos, he felt hotter than ever. He began to mumble. "I won't beg. You can't … can't make me." He struggled to get out of Athos's grasp. "The comte … He's back," he gasped, clearly panicked. "His dungeon … Things in his dungeon … Torture. He'll make me beg … He said he … He said …"

Athos tried to calm him. "Sh … Sh … It's all right. Everything's all right. Sh … There's nothing to harm you."

D'Artagnan remained agitated. "Can't escape," he mumbled. "Too many … Too many … The comte …" He whimpered. "It hurts … They won't stop." Silent tears trickled down his face.

Athos shook him slightly. D'Artagnan! You're safe now. You're with me. The comte can't hurt you again." With the edge of the sheet, he wiped the tearstained face.

D'Artagnan's eyes opened and he seemed to recognize Athos. "You didn't come," he whispered.

Athos tried again to quiet him. "Sh … I'm here now. I won't leave you. I won't let anyone hurt you. Go to sleep." He placed his hand on the sweat dampened hair.

D'Artagnan's eyes closed and he appeared to drift off. Athos began to ease out from holding him, but his eyelids fluttered and he whimpered, moving restlessly again. Unwilling to risk disturbing him, Athos resumed the position of holding D'Artagnan against his chest. D'Artagnan settled contentedly against the familiar scent of leather and slept. Still holding him, Athos, too, drifted off to sleep.

By the next morning, D'Artagnan had developed a croupy cough and his eyes were glazed with pain from the infected lash marks. The doctor added a cough syrup to the medicine he was forced to swallow, but with little results. Despite all efforts to bring his temperature down, for almost a week his fever raged out of control. He mumbled deliriously, reliving his captivity and calling for Athos or Aramis or Porthos. Only when one of them came and reassured him with their presence, did he calm down enough to get any rest.

The morning came when D'Artagnan's temperature finally began to drop. "Athos," he muttered.

"No, it's me." D'Artagnan opened his eyes to find Aramis sitting beside his bed.

"Was Athos here?" D'Artagnan was confused.

"He was, but he left a little while ago." Aramis placed a hand on his forehead. "You're still warm, but at least you're not burning up any longer."

"It's too hot." He tried to push his blankets aside.

"No, you don't." Aramis pulled the blankets back up. "You have to keep warm. You can't get chilled. Do you want a drink of water?"

"I'm thirsty," he whispered. He began to cough.

Aramis poured water into a cup and supported D'Artagnan's head as he eagerly started to gulp it. Aramis removed the cup. "That's enough for now. Too much, too quickly, and it's not going to stay down." He reached for a damp cloth and wiped D'Artagnan's face with it. "Before you ask, you're in the infirmary at the garrison. We brought you here a week ago."

"Infirmary?" His gaze took in the unfamiliar room. "I don't remember coming here," he murmured. I keep … having these dreams. Everything is all mixed up … I can't seem to get it straight." He coughed again.

"That's because you've been out of your head."

"I've been sick?"

"You've been very sick."

D'Artagnan was silent for a moment. He looked down; fingering his blankets, and spoke in a low voice. "Is he still angry at me?"

"What're you talking about?"

"The captain. He ordered me … He ordered me to do something … I can't think what it was, but … I never did it. I didn't carry out his orders."

Aramis smiled. "The captain has been worried about you, not angry at you. He's been here everyday to check on you."

D'Artagnan had a sudden recall of Treville's gruff voice saying, "I don't understand how he sees a damn thing with those bangs hanging in his eyes," followed by a calloused hand brushing back the disparaged bangs.

"Tell him … Tell him, I'm sorry." He rubbed a hand across his eyes and suppressed a yawn. "I would tell him myself, but I'm so tired … Never been this tired."

"You're talking too much. You need to be quiet and take a nap."

"D'Artagnan became quiet, but not for long. "My sword! They took my sword, Aramis." Agitated, he tried to sit up.

Aramis pressed him back down. "Take it easy. Your sword is here. I'll tell you about who got it back for you when you can manage to stay awake long enough to listen."

D'Artagnan looked at Aramis as if afraid to believe him.

"I'll get it and show you." Aramis left and returned almost immediately. He placed the sword on top of D'Artagnan's blankets. D'Artagnan picked it up and traced the design on the hilt with reverent fingers. For the first time in weeks, he smiled. Clutching the sword tightly, he fell asleep and Aramis carefully removed it from his hand.

**Three Weeks Later**

It was an unseasonably mild winter day when D'Artagnan, Porthos, Aramis and Athos gathered around a table in the garrison courtyard. A platter of sliced roast beef, cheese and bread sat on the table in front of them. The three musketeers dug in hungrily, while D'Artagnan merely pushed the food around on his plate.

Athos, sitting next to Aramis, looked at him from across the table and noticed him not eating. "Eat," he ordered.

D'Artagnan put down his fork. "I'm not hungry."

"Eat anyway, skinny boy," said Porthos.

"Why should I eat when I'm not hungry?"

"Pull up your shirt," Aramis said.

"What?"

"Pull up your shirt," Aramis repeated.

Looking puzzled, D'Artagnan complied.

Aramis gestured with his fork. "I can count every one of your ribs."

Athos's voice was firm. "That's why we're going to stay on your tail until you start eating more."

With an air of resignation, D'Artagnan picked up a slice of cheese, but began coughing.

Without thinking, Porthos reached over and thumped him on the back.

"Porthos! His back's not fully healed yet," Aramis reminded him.

Porthos was instantly contrite. "I forgot. Sorry."

"It's nothing, Porthos," D'Artagnan said. "I'm fine."

"I'm glad to hear that." Leveque strolled over to their table and helped himself to a slice of roast beef. "It's good to see you up and about. Things haven't been the same around here with Treville's pet being sick."

D'Artagnan responded hotly. "I'm nobody's _pet_, least of all, Treville's."

"No? Treville turned the garrison inside out looking for you when you went missing. Even Serge has been out scouring the markets, searching for delicacies to tempt the appetite of little D'Artagnan."

Athos gave the older musketeer a warning look. "Leave him alone, Leveque."

Leveque's smile was more like a sneer. "It must be nice to having your big brothers to fight your battles for you."

D'Artagnan reacted with indignation, his brown eyes flashing. "I fight my own battles!"

"In that case … How about a re-match? My sword against yours."

D'Artagnan started to get up. "Anytime you're ready!"

"Sit down, D'Artagnan," Athos ordered. Porthos obligingly yanked D'Artagnan back down on the bench. "Leveque, he's not well enough yet to take on you or anyone else. When he's ready, you can have your re-match."

"I'll look forward to it." Leveque gave D'Artagnan a mocking salute and sauntered away.

D'Artagnan turned furiously on Athos. "Why did you stop me? I know I could have fought him!"

"You don't have your strength back yet," Porthos said, "And you still got dark circles under your eyes."

D'Artagnan gave him a rebellious look. "I could've done it."

Athos was curt. "No, you couldn't. How many times do I have to tell you about thinking before you act? You want to be a musketeer, but do you ever consider the consequences of your impulsive behavior? Impetuousness could not only cost you your own life, but cost the lives of other musketeers. You must learn to keep a cool head and this is not merely a suggestion. Treville will never allow you to join us as long as you insist upon acting with the impulsiveness of a willful child."

Aramis broke in. "Athos, you've rapped his knuckles enough. Why don't you tell him the news?"

D'Artagnan had listened to Athos's scolding with downcast eyes. He looked up with sudden curiosity. "What news?"

"The king and queen have returned from their visit to the south of France."

D'Artagnan gave Athos a disappointed look. "Is that all?"

"No, that's not all. Treville wouldn't allow us to go back with more men and deal with the Comte de Vienne. He said that the comte's closeness to the throne made it inadvisable and that the king would have to agree to whatever action is taken. Treville requested an audience with the king, which has been granted. Tomorrow, Treville and I will be bringing a complaint before the king. The king has the authority to make the comte pay for what he did."

D'Artagnan spoke eagerly. "I want to go with you."

"No."

"But why not? Surely, I have the right to be there. Athos, please."

"It has nothing to do with your rights. It has everything to do with convincing the king to take strong redress against one of his most powerful and loyal nobles. His majesty is … capricious and unpredictable, and you are much too hotheaded to have a voice in this. It takes all the patience that Treville can summon sometimes to deal with the king. You can be certain that we will do everything possible to see that justice is served."

Porthos stood up and put his hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder. "Athos is right." Fondly, he tousled D'Artagnan's hair.

The king was seated on his throne, Cardinal Richelieu standing by his side, when Treville and Athos were ushered in. Both musketeers bowed to the king, whose jeweled fingers tapped the arm of his chair in boredom.

The king acknowledged their presence with a slight incline of his head. "Captain Treville, why did you and Athos request to see me?"

"I'll get right to the point," Treville answered. "An attack was made on one of my men by the Comte de Vienne."

"Which one of your men," the cardinal interjected.

"D'Artagnan."

The cardinal gave one of his cold smiles. D'Artagnan! The boy hasn't even been admitted to the King's Musketeers yet. Why should his majesty be bothered about a lowly recruit who may not ever even become a musketeer?"

"Because even my _lowly recruits_ matter to me, Cardinal," Treville snapped.

"D'Artagnan," the king mused. "Now which one is he?"

"Young. Slender. Long brown hair," Treville answered.

"Ah, yes. I know the one you mean" He gave a little smile. "I overheard one of the queen's ladies refer to him as _the cute one_."

Treville was uncertain how to respond. "I suppose ladies might see him that way."

The king chuckled. "Ladies can be so delightfully silly, can't they? Unlike we men."

Treville cleared his throat. "Indeed, your majesty, but let's please get back to D'Artagnan. For no reason other than the Comte de Vienne's offended pride, the boy was kidnapped, imprisoned in the comte's dungeon, starved and viciously beaten. He was also left tied out in the open for hours in freezing rain. He has only just recovered from his ordeal."

The king was indignant. "That is outrageous. This shall not go unpunished. I must take appropriate measures against the Comte de Vienne." He thought for a moment. "I know. I shall have him flogged and thrown into the Bastille."

The cardinal was aghast. "Your Majesty! You cannot do that to the Comte de Vienne."

"Of course, I can. I AM the king. I can do anything I please." He looked up at the cardinal. "Can't I?"

"I only meant, Sire, that taking such actions against one of your most distinguished nobles would not be well received. It would set a bad precedent, and the loyalty of your nobles is crucial to the stability of the throne. If action is to be taken, other options must be considered."

The king responded with a peevish air at having been thwarted. "And what would you suggest, Cardinal?"

"The Comte de Vienne owns properties throughout France," the cardinal replied smoothly. "One or more of these could be confiscated for your majesty's own use and more taxes could be levied against the comte."

"That's not nearly enough," Treville retorted angrily. "The Comte de Vienne is a very wealthy man. He can easily afford to give up a property or two and pay more taxes."

"We must consider what is best for his majesty," the cardinal shot back, "Not merely obtaining revenge because he damaged your precious little musketeer."

"We're not here for revenge," Athos broke in, barely controlling his anger. "We're here to see that justice is done."

The cardinal shrugged. "Call it what you will. I, at least, am interested in putting his majesty's interests first and foremost."

Treville and the cardinal looked daggers at each other, but it was Athos who spoke. "Your Majesty, you are our only hope for justice. What the cardinal has proposed amounts to little more than a slap on the wrist. I appeal to you not to allow the Comte de Vienne to escape the consequences of his actions."

The cardinal spoke again. "You said yourself, Captain Treville, that the … musketeer-to-be is recovering. In due time, this will be largely forgotten. It is inappropriate for a musketeer to attempt to dictate to the king to serve his own purposes. His majesty relies upon my advice because it has always, without exception, served him well."

The king held up his hands. "I can't listen to any more of this. Arguments make my head ache. Captain, I must regretfully concur with the cardinal. I have always relied upon his advice."

A triumphant gleam appeared in the cardinal's eyes. Treville looked back at him with disgust.

The king continued. "I will see that your D'Artagnan is compensated in some way." He paused. "Let me see." He snapped his fingers. "I have it. He shall be one of those who accompany me on my next hunting trip. He will enjoy that I am certain." He turned to the cardinal. "Send out someone immediately to evaluate the comte's properties. I could use another hunting lodge, or two."

The cardinal bowed. "As you wish, Sire. I will see to it right away."

The king looked at Treville. "By the way, Captain. I've been meaning to ask you about another of your musketeers … Musketeer Aramis."

Athos felt his knees begin to go weak. Could the king have noticed the way that Aramis and the queen looked at each other? Could he have heard any gossip?

The king went on. "I have heard that Musketeer Aramis is quite the ladies' man. I should like a visit from him and learn his secrets with the ladies."

Athos's heart skipped a beat.

The king giggled. "We could have a talk man-to-man, or should I say king-to-man. No, that doesn't sound right either. King-to-musketeer. That sounds better."

Athos spoke up quickly. "Sire, I assure you that Musketeer Aramis's reputation with women is greatly exaggerated. As the one who knows him best, I can assure you that he has scant time for the ladies and thinks of little else but serving your majesty."

The cardinal eyed Athos cynically. Treville gave him a quizzical look.

"I must say that is disappointing. I was so looking forward to it." The king put on a pouty face. "A king shouldn't be subject to disappointment like a common person."

"Quite so, Your Majesty," the cardinal agreed. He looked at Treville and Athos. "I believe that your business here is finished."

Treville responded with some bitterness. "So, it would appear." He and Athos bowed their way out.

In Treville's office, the captain related the outcome of their visit to D'Artagnan, Aramis and Porthos. They watched D'Artagnan, all of them expecting an outburst, but his reaction was subdued. "You did what you could," he said to Treville and Athos. "I'm grateful to you both." D'Artagnan wandered over to a window and stood moodily looking out.

Treville sighed. "I deeply regret, son, that we couldn't persuade the king to take stronger measures against the comte, but the cardinal has the king's ear and he prevailed. Had the queen been present, rather than the cardinal, I'm confident that we could have achieved a different outcome."

"I understand," D'Artagnan replied, still with his back turned.

The captain continued. "Look at me, D'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan turned.

"You are not to seek retribution against the comte." His glance swept over the others. "None of you are. That's an order. The king has spoken and we must accept his decision. That is our duty."

D'Artagnan turned back to the window.

_But Louis won't always be king and someday…_

End


End file.
